My parents thought I was crazy when I replaced all the lightbulbs with candles. The candles are a fire-hazard, they said. The bulbs can last up to 10 years plus warranty, but barely a day for a small candle.

I never thought I could live in a house designed by repressed dreams, but I have learned that she makes for pleasant conversation over coffee. She said, you don't have to change the walls and the floor yet. Start with the lights, since they change how you view the rest of your life.

It started as a one-day experiment. I built the wick from old strands of hair and used wax from my ears. It smelled like the garbage can I took them from, but it looked right. Wait, not right, not yet, but better. The old bulb covered the room in sterile tones. But in this one corner, with my shitty candle, it looked mine.

I wanted more. I imagined yanking out every bulb from it's socket then jamming in wax so hard that it caught fire. Then I heard her voice, "Slowly." "Do it properly"

I visited the local candle maker and showed him my abomination. He said, your heart is in the right place, but you need better materials. Wax from the bees, borax from the lab. He said this while thinking I would one day work my way up to speaking with the bees and the scientists. But I was long tired of building from materials assigned from when I preferred the color blue in 3rd grade. Speaking to foreign species would be trivial compared.

Some days, as I unscrewed one bulb from its socket, I got frightened. What if the candle falls out? What if I truly preferred the comfort of impersonal tones? She said this is not a commitment. Not now, not ever. But what if they get annoyed? She sips from her coffee. Fuck them.

I lied when I said I replaced all of them. I've not even changed the ones in my bedroom, just the space that occupies my mind. Even still, while I know how to find my car keys using mechanical radiation, the candles disperse a fluorescence that the old teachers have yet to explain. I feel like I've stumbled onto the Caribbean en route to Asia, crossing an ocean many others have crossed before, to a continent seemingly new, yet, has existed since the very beginning.

Instead of running from the new land and calling it heathenous, I want to embrace it. I want to wrap it with my arms and legs and torso and soul and delicately whisper, "I'm sorry I didn't see you before, but it's okay, I'm here. I see you. You were always there." Then, she'll maneuver her arms around my contorted form to reach for the last of her coffee, then mutter back, "Took you long enough."